


Eyes Up High

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hawkeye has a grateful fan, M/M, One Shot, Post-Movie(s), St. Nicholas' Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have something for you," she said, with a smile, wiping her hands on her apron as she stood from her stool. "A little gift, to thank you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Up High

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> Written for December 6th, Saint Nicholas' Day.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [Maquis Leader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader) for all her help and cheerleading!

 

Clint hunched his shoulders into his thin windbreaker and walked a little faster in the bitter chill. He probably should have worn a heavier coat, but it wasn't that long a walk.

The little coffee shop was about a ten minute walk from the tower. There were closer places -- hell, there was a Starbucks in the tower lobby -- but nowhere he'd found made better coffee. And if he got there early enough, there were big cookies that were so good he swore they were sprinkled with crack dust.

The bell over the door jingled cheerfully when he walked in, and he smiled at Alina, the young woman behind the counter. She owned the place with her husband, he knew -- the man worked nights, so Clint rarely saw him. Clint smiled and nodded politely at the older lady who sat in her regular place at the other end of the work counter. She'd never spoken to him, but he was pretty sure she was Alina's mother or mother-in-law. As usual, her gnarled hands worked steadily at some sort of dough, and if she was the one responsible for the cookies, Clint was ready to kiss her.

Hands still working busily, she stared at him, her eyes wide, and Clint self-consciously resisted the urge to rudely turn his back on her. He felt like a complete tool wearing his sunglasses inside, but it was better than displaying the full glory of the truly spectacular shiner he was currently sporting, one which was only bound to get much worse before it got better.

He smiled at her once more before he turned back to Alina to place his order. He took the bag with two cookies in it -- one of them was supposed to be for Phil, but honestly, neither of them were going to make it back to the tower as anything more than crumbs at the bottom of the empty bag -- and he was waiting for her to finish preparing his drink when he felt the old woman staring at him again.

"You are hurt," she said suddenly, Eastern Europe heavy in her voice. Phil could have told him exactly where, most likely, but Phil was stuck in his office, dealing with the mountain of paperwork that had resulted from the Avengers' latest escapade, the same adventure that had given Clint the black eye and the fourteen stitches currently itching like a bastard on his left forearm, thankfully hidden away by his jacket sleeve.

"I'm fine, ma'am," he said easily as he turned to face her, giving her his most charming smile. "It's nothing."

"Is not nothing. You are Hawkeye, yes?"

Clint froze. It wasn't unheard of for him to be recognized, but it _was_ unusual. He wasn't one of the flashy Avengers, and he was generally hidden away from the eye of the cameras. He glanced around the little shop, but the only other customers were a young couple sharing cake and kisses in the corner, way too involved in each other to care about this conversation.

"Yes, ma'am. I am," he said, because there was no reason to lie.

"You save my family. In May, when those terrible things come."

"It was a team effort," Clint corrected gently, shaking his head. "And we were happy to help."

"No, not them. You. My daughter -- my other one -- and her boy, my grandson, they were come to visit us. Here, in the shop. They were on a bus. My grandson, he is ten, he tell me you save them. Those monsters were everywhere, killing everyone, but you get them out, you get them safe. You are his favorite Avenger now."

Much of the battle was a blur. His head had been pounding the whole time with grief and rage and a pretty fierce concussion, but he vaguely remembered a bus caught in the thick of things, kids crying and women screaming, and getting people out and directing them away from the fire zone.

"I'm glad I was in the right place to help them," he told her. "I'm very glad your family is safe."

So many families weren't. Moments like this happened sometimes, but he'd seen the opposite, too. The Avengers, singularly and in a group, had been thanked, cried on, hugged, high-fived, and fist-bumped. They'd also been screamed at, threatened, and spat on. Not everyone had been saved, and grieving people weren't often rational.

"I have something for you," she said, with a smile, wiping her hands on her apron as she stood from her stool. "A little gift, to thank you."

Clint's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "Oh, no, ma'am -- that's not necessary, really. It's -- "

"Yes, is necessary. You wait here."

"Here you are, sir," Alina said, handing Clint his forgotten coffee. "Mama, are you bothering this nice man?"

Before he could protest, her mother glared at her and snapped, "Not bothering. He is Hawkeye."

Alina gave him an embarrassed smile. "Yes, Mama, I know, but I'm sure he just wants to drink his coffee like everyone else."

"You wait here," her mother told him. "Please. I will come right back."

She shuffled off toward the back of the shop, and Clint couldn't just leave. He carefully took a sip of his coffee, sighing in contentment as the familiar flavors hit his tongue.

Alina smiled sheepishly once more. "I'm very sorry, she -- "

"It's fine," he interrupted, softening it with a smile of his own. "Really."

"Thank you," she said earnestly. "I have not said anything because I was not sure if you would wish to hear it -- you must be so tired of always being on display -- but truly, what you have done, what you do, all of you, not just for my family, but every time you are needed, it is an amazing thing."

Clint shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with her praise, thankful beyond measure when the bell over the door jangled and another couple came into the shop. With one last smile for Clint, she moved away to help them.

Her mother slowly made her way back to the counter where he stood. She handed him a flat little box, plain white, smaller than the palm of his hand.

"Really, ma'am, this isn't -- I can't -- "

"Please," she said, her dark eyes full of pleading sincerity. "Is small."

He opened it to reveal a little gold medal, smaller than a quarter, on a thin gold chain. His brow furrowed as he studied the bearded man holding a book. "Saint Nicholas?" he read. _Pray for us_ curved underneath the saint's face.

"He is your saint. He will protect you."

Clint opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was cause offense. "I... I'm not... Catholic... I don't..."

She gave him a knowing smile. "Is okay. He will watch over you anyway. Please, take it. Make an old woman happy."

He smiled uneasily. Accepting it would be the simplest thing to do -- not taking it was bound to cause offense. So he nodded as he replaced the lid and slipped the box into his jacket pocket.

"I will. Thank you."

"You wear it, he will keep you safe."

That he wasn't about to promise, so he just gave her another smile. "Thank you, ma'am. You have a good day, now."

Clutching his cookies and his rapidly cooling coffee, he quickly made his escape. The walk back to the tower seemed to take no time at all, and he made his way up to his suite to do a little Googling.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

That night, he sat on the edge of their bed as Phil went about his nightly routine, setting out his suit for the following morning and then showering and getting ready for bed.

"Did you know that Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of archers?" he asked as Phil bustled around, doing something -- _always_ doing something.

"Mmm," Phil said absently. "And children and fisherman and pawnbrokers and a bunch of other things. Including repentant thieves."

Clint raised his head at the last one, looking around to stare at Phil's back as he briskly folded shirts and put them away into the dresser. "Really?"

"Mm hmm."

 _Guess he's my saint in more ways than one_ , Clint thought wryly. Wikipedia had given a big long list, but he'd focused in on archers, considered his research done, and gone to check his fantasy football stats.

"Archers have two patron saints, actually. The other is Saint Sebastian. God must have had you in mind."

Clint stuck his tongue out at the other man's back. He wondered how Phil knew all of that, but he'd stopped being surprised long ago by all the weird things Phil knew.

Then, he remembered laughing his ass off during one of their team movie marathons when Phil had mentioned always having to tamp down his instinctive urge to respond to "May the Force be with you" with "And also with you".

"That's right, you're Catholic."

Phil glanced over his shoulder, his lip curled in the barest smirk. "Lapsed. It'd make what we have going here a little tougher if I were a good Catholic boy."

He finally caught a glimpse of what Clint was holding in his hand and crossed the room to take a look. "What've you got there?"

Fiddling with the little medal, Clint told him about his trip to get coffee that morning, ending with a shrug. "I couldn't say no, but... you don't believe in all that stuff, do you? Patron saints, guardian angels, things like that?"

Phil ran a hand through Clint's hair and smiled fondly, brushing a kiss over his forehead as his thumb gently stroked the bruised flesh around Clint's eye. "I believe in anything that brings you home safe at the end of the day."

And really, what could Clint do then except pull him down for a real kiss? He felt Phil's lips curve into a smile against his own as he ran his free hand down Phil's arm, tangling their fingers together.

The chain jingled a little as it shifted in his palm, and Phil pulled away to look at it. "What are you going to do with it?"

Clint bounced it lightly in his hand and then shrugged again. "Can't hurt, right?"

Carefully removing his chain from around his neck, he undid the clasp and took the medal from its own chain to slide it onto his. It clinked quietly against his wedding ring and Phil's dog tags as he closed the clasp and slipped it back over his neck. He rolled his shoulders, testing the new weight, but the thing was tiny. He really couldn't even tell it was there.

He piled the little gold chain back into its box and tucked it into his bedside table and then glanced up to see that Phil had crossed back to the closet. He pulled his shirt off over his head, and Clint's gut clenched, as it always did, at the sight of the jagged scar that ran down half the length of Phil's back. It was an angry red now, slowly fading from livid as more time passed, and Clint swallowed harshly.

He'd never believed in... anything, really, when it came to organized religion. They'd tried to teach him and Barney the finer points at St. Ignatius, but the Barton boys had pretty much ignored the lessons in charity and compassion and love, having already been rudely introduced to the less-than-kind parts of human nature.

But by rights, he and Phil should both be dead -- Phil by Loki's spear, and himself at the hand of Natasha or one of the other agents. Compromised agents were supposed to be taken out, not taken down, and someone should have put a bullet in his head after Natasha'd knocked his ass out on board the helicarrier.

They were both here, though, and... maybe...

 _Thanks,_ he thought briefly, to whoever might be listening, and then rolled his eyes and shook his head at himself. He was a little too old to start believing in fairy tales.

"So, you remember Saint Nicholas from the, whatchacallem, the classes they give you when you're a kid?" Clint asked as he pulled the blankets back and climbed into bed.

"Catechism?" Phil laughed as he slid into the other side of the bed. "Hardly. No, I was curious, so I looked it up one day."

"Curious about what?"

The way Phil's lip quirked up briefly and then settled was the single sign of embarrassment he ever showed, and Clint was pretty sure he was the only one who'd ever noticed it. Except Natasha, of course.

"I wondered who the patron saint of archers might be. JARVIS, lights."

Clint grinned into the darkness. "Aw, sir. You were worried."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Barton." The impact of his field voice was blunted, since the words were muffled by the back of Clint's neck as Phil snuggled up behind him and threw an arm over his chest.

"Hey, wait a minute. Saint Nicholas as in Saint Nick? As in Santa Claus? My patron saint is Santa Claus? Awesome!"

"Doesn't matter, since you're permanently on the naughty list," Phil replied through a yawn.

Clint wiggled his hips. "I'll show you naughty."

Phil snorted, but it was a tired sound, and Clint decided that letting him sleep and then waking him up with morning sex was a much better plan than trying to start something now. Spending the day dealing with Avengers-related paperwork did not generally put Phil in the mood.

Clint tried to work out if the patron saint of archers was the only saint Phil had looked up and realized that was impossible. He bet himself that if he asked Phil to name a patron saint for every member of the team, Phil would be able to do it instantly, without pulling out his phone to double check Wikipedia, and he resolved to test his theory soon. Maybe during the next team dinner.

He wondered if there was a patron saint for badass secret agents who faced down a god without backup and lived to tell about it. Who was the patron saint of coming back from the dead on the operating table? Twice?

"Phil?" he whispered.

"Mmm?"

Phil's voice was tired and slow, already half-asleep, and Clint closed his eyes, simultaneously hit by twin waves of guilt and anxiety. Phil wore out so easily these days.

"I just... what do I need with a patron saint? As long as I've got you watching my six and your voice in my ear, I don't need anything else."

There was no reply, and Clint wondered if Phil had fallen asleep. Then he jumped in surprise as Phil pushed him onto his back, hands sliding into Clint's hair to hold him steady as he claimed his mouth in a fierce kiss.

It was rare -- Clint could probably count the times on one hand -- but sometimes he managed to come up with something that was both the-truth-and-nothing-but _and_ exactly the right thing to say.

 _Go me_ , he thought hazily as he grinned against Phil's lips. _Maybe Saint Nick **is** watching over me after all..._

**END**

 

**Author's Note:**

> It is not my intention to make light of or trivialize anyone's beliefs with this story. The subject of religion is always a tricky one to tackle, and I hope I have not caused offense.
> 
> When I was first plotting my Feelstide fic, [Secret Santa](http://archiveofourown.org/works/575232), I learned a little bit about St. Nicholas, and it ended up inspiring this story. So this is like bonus Feelstide fic, I guess.


End file.
